PARMA
The Historical Chess Museum, small as it was, attracted many visitors from around the world. Young and old came from near and far to see some of the earliest known forms of the game.
The young guide felt honoured to be where he was, showing hundreds of people daily through the museum. He had been brought up with a large portion of respect for the game, and he used it to strengthen his own mind.
"This is where we keep the archives of chess games played over the centuries by the masters," he said in Italian, indicating a long hall blocked off by two separate sets of inch-thick glass doors. "Due to the fragility and value of these items, this area is off limits to the public." The warning was repeated in writing on the door itself.
As the group passed on, one tourist slipped away from the group. He glanced over his shoulder as he worked at the door, not nervously, but with the confidence of one who was prepared to eliminate any interference.
The bzzt of an electronic shock, and the door slid open soundlessly. The second set of doors repeated the motion in the same amount of time. The lingering tourist strode swiftly, confidently, into the sacred archives. Without a moment of hesitation, he placed six small bricks, like white clay in appearance, along the floor. They were connected with a single wire. He stopped less than halfway down the corridor and took a single notebook. From under his leather jacket, he produced a small carrying case. The notebook fit inside perfectly. He snapped it shut, then locked it. He took a small pin-like object with a red light at one end from a container in his pocket and poked it into one of the small bricks.
And he left.
Exactly one minute after the glass doors slid shut behind him, the entire museum disappeared into one huge flaming mass.
LOS ANGELES
"That was three days ago," said Arvin Sloane, back at APO headquarters, freeze-framing the video feed on the monitors. "The attack at first seemed random, but then this was found." He hit a button on his cordless mouse, and the picture changed. It showed the tour group approaching the corridor.
"Amazingly, this piece of security footage was found among the debris," Jack Bristow continued for Sloane. "Most of you will recognize this man."
Sloane stopped the footage as the man glanced over his shoulder while working at the lock of the glass doors. He was of average height, had short, blonde hair that had a slightly mussed up look, clear blue eyes and a small cleft in his chin.
"Sark," Agent Sydney Bristow said, a feeling of dread growing in her chest. She looked around at her fellow agents. Agents Michael Vaughn and Eric Weiss sat to her left, Marshall Flinkman, Marcus Dixon, and her half-sister, Nadia, across from her. Jack sat at the head of the table, and Sloane was standing behind Jack. All but Nadia wore looks on their faces that indicated that they felt as Sydney did.
Nadia looked around. "Am I the only one here that doesn't know who this man is?" she asked in confusion.
Sloane gave a brief but precise history of Sark and his dealings with those present. "This is the only sighting of him since his aid in the capture of Anna Espinosa."
Sydney burned inwardly. It had been her fault that he had escaped.
"But what does Sark want with chess archives?" she questioned. "I mean, it just doesn't seem like his style."
"His style seems to be doing whatever we don't expect," her father replied. "However, in this case, we think we know what he took, and why."
"I'm assuming this is Rambaldi-related?" Sydney asked, looking at him. No one noticed Nadia stiffen at the mention of the mystic's name.
"The Historical Chess Museum kept a digital copy of everything in its archives on a server in Venice," Jack answered. "And, oddly enough, there was a record there of a game played by Milo Rambaldi – against himself."
"Wow," Weiss spoke up. "This guy was really busy. Between prophecies and inventions, architecture and chess, it's no wonder he left no progeny."
Sydney said nothing about how close he had come, only a few years ago.
"Now, the weird thing about this game," said Marshall, standing, "is that it doesn't make any sense. I know, sometimes a lot of things don't make sense, but – listen. Okay, you know how you play a game of chess, right? You move a pawn forward, like so, and then the other person…" He imitated a game of chess being started. "Now, here's the strange part: these moves? The ones recorded in the Rambaldi game? For the first eight moves, they work, but then they don't."
Dixon voiced the question many of them wanted to ask. "What do you mean, they don't work?"
"I mean, he's making these totally illegal moves, moving a knight halfway across the board, that kind of stuff."
Sloane clicked a button and another picture came up on the screen, this time a paper with longitude and latitude written on it.
"The moves Rambaldi made were no chess game," he said seriously, "but rather encoded coordinates. Sydney, you and Dixon are familiar with his type of hidden clues. You two are on point. You will go to this location and find whatever it is Rambaldi hid there."
"And just what is that supposed to be?" Dixon asked curiously.
Sloane shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know," he admitted. "But if I had a guess, I'd say, something that would give its user the power of a political checkmate."
Jack looked as if he were about to say something, but Sloane interrupted. "And of course, due to the nature of this … problem … I will be stepping down as director of this division and handing full authority over to Jack." He pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and put them on his nose, then left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.
Once the door was closed, Jack stood and looked around at everyone solemnly. "That means, of course, that the mission has changed."
Sydney and Dixon exchanged a glance. For once, Sloane's plan had made sense. What was Jack up to?